


After

by aeroport_art



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Incest, M/M, Past Underage, Pre-Slash, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-29
Updated: 2007-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-01 03:31:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeroport_art/pseuds/aeroport_art
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He knows—he</i> knows <i>there had to be more. The scars on his body speak a secret history; the amulet he woke with bears a too-heavy weight. There’s something more, he can feel it. There’s something keeping him here, immobilized in the irrational fear of missing something important.</i></p><p>In the aftermath of Hell, Dean waits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After

**Author's Note:**

> Written in one of those twilight hours, and finished up on a plane. 
> 
> Diverges from canon after Season 3, when Dean returns from Hell.

Dean is waiting.

He waits for morning to come. In the meantime, night stretches for eternity, the low blackness of the sky eating everything up. There are no stars. No clouds, no moon, just the yawn of a universe that’s impossibly shrunk down—down to nothing but Dean, and his waiting. He wonders if he’s spent his entire life waiting.

\-----

The truth of the matter is, Dean is alone in his suspicions, perceptions—the rest of the world goes on, business as usual. Kids go to school. Dogs are walked. Men in suits pull at their collars, shrugging uncomfortably as they wait for the hour hand to point south at six, minute hand twelve while nations away, their mothers silently sigh. Nothing is still.

In Dean’s rented apartment—cheap for the location, six-hundred a month for a decent-sized studio, the only real drawback being the grisly demise of its previous owner (as if that would deter him, seeing as how he barely makes enough to cover rent)—he makes a pot of coffee. It’s early, just a quarter past eight and he’s groggy as hell, crap in his eyes and wearing yesterday’s shorts. He doesn’t really need to be awake; nothing’s in store for the day, but he’s up all the same. He makes enough coffee for three—doesn’t drink any of it, only pours himself a mug that slowly goes lukewarm in his hand. Dumps it all out when it’s stone-cold and sour.

He busies himself for the day. It doesn’t matter what he does. Later, as he’s trying to sleep, Dean turns around and faces the twin bed on the other side of the room. It’s unoccupied—has been since he got the place, in fact. The covers are made, neatly pulled back, its pillows fluffed to perfection. Dean looks at it for awhile, then rolls back over and stares at the wall.

The Earth never moved so slowly.

\-----

He doesn’t remember much. That might be the crux of it, actually—that Dean doesn’t _remember_. Oh, there was hellfire, sure; you don’t make a day trip to Lucifer’s home without remembering the hellfire, but beyond that…well, that’s all he’s got, really. Dean remembers hellfire and all that came with it—the acrid deterioration of flesh and soul, and the emptiness, God, the _emptiness_ —but he doesn’t remember what came before, or after. Has enough trouble grasping the notion there even _is_ an After.

Dean reads the paper at seven o’ clock, tilting the pages towards the window. The spill of orange light first intensifies, then ebbs to a faded blue-grey, as the sun unheedingly sets. He folds the newspaper down when its too dark to read and adds it to his pile of recycling, which is starting to resemble the Tower of Pisa.

Dean sits for a bit, pops his knuckles, then ambles to bed, though it’s only half-past seven.

\-----

Dean doesn’t remember this, but there’s this game they used to play. It works like this:

Sam will watch Dean. This part of it is variable; sometimes it’ll be subtle, just a flash of eyelashes when Dean shifts in his seat, or the way Sam will chew on his inner cheek as Dean cleans out his guns. Other times, not so much—he’ll devour the view with intent in his eyes. John might notice, or he might not. Either way, it doesn’t ping the father’s radar, for his youngest is just like that—passionate and feral, when he wants to be (John prefers it anyway, prefers it to that cavernous void in Sam’s expression when it’s time yet again for another move). In any case, it isn’t important whether John sees it or not. It’s only meant for Dean.

Sam watches Dean. Sometimes it’ll take his brother a week to notice, other times just that first look. It all depends. What comes next though, does not depend. Doesn’t change, isn’t variable. This is the part that always stays the same: Dean watches back.

Dean will slide his eyes down the knobby spine of his brother’s back; will flush with guilt as Sam knowingly stretches his arms, thin strip of soft belly over white elastic. Their eyes might bump with an electric jolt, but Dean, red-faced, won’t avert his gaze. Because this is the trigger. It took some years, took a few trials of crossed signals and hasty retreats, but over time it’s been honed to an art. One shared look—not the fidgety one, not the culpable one; not the lingering, lascivious, or even the lustful one. The fact of the matter is, it can’t be labeled which look it takes, because only the Winchester boys, only they know. Only Sam and Dean know when the trigger’s been pulled.

Now, everyone can imagine what comes next. The boys—John Winchester’s handsome young boys—they fuck. Not in the literal sense, no, not that _ever_ , but in every tangible sense, they _fuck_. Usually it’s Sam who moves first, but the elder’s been known to take that initial leap too. No matter the method, it’s done fast, hard, and _hot_. 

For days after, Dean will dream of Sam’s fingers inside him (the inexorable breach of Sam’s knuckles, two at a time). For days after, Sam will scent his brother and remember it different (the smell of Dean’s come, stronger than aftershave and sweat).

The game trails off in these phantom sensations; slow, inevitable, like the bitter parting of lovers. But it does trail off, and before long, it’s just Sam and Dean again. Brothers—close ones, sure, but just two brothers on the endless road, comrades in arms. The game is put to rest, sleeping just under skin ‘till Sam dares again.

Of course, it goes without saying that this game doesn’t officially exist. They won’t speak of it; won’t refer to, will never _imply_ at its state of being. At least, they didn’t—not until the day Dean died.

\-----

Winter passes like white noise, without event. Spring comes and goes. Only when it’s too hot inside (the air conditioner archaic and awful) does Dean bother to leave the studio for longer than his daily run.

He doesn’t remember it being so hot here last summer. Doesn’t recall the way the perspiration gathers between his shoulder blades just from getting into his parked car. Things change though, he supposes; maybe he’s the only one who stays the same.

 _Fuck that,_ he thinks. He drives past the grocery store, past the boundary of the city and keeps going, going until he hits the rocky cliffs of the coast. Stops, parks, and gets out—looks out over water. It’s the first time Dean’s really seen anything outside of his suburban neighborhood, because before this stationary life he now leads, there was only fire.

 _Fuck that,_ Dean repeats. He knows—he _knows_ there had to be more. The scars on his body speak a secret history; the amulet he woke with bears a too-heavy weight. There’s something more, he can feel it. There’s something keeping him here, immobilized in the irrational fear of missing something _important._

The ocean holds no answers though. She simply moves with the tides, coming and going in the same way she’s done for millennia. She is the silent reminder that there had always been more than just Dean—will always be more, long after Dean’s gone. It feels like a mean joke.

He drives back home, reckless, in half the amount of time it took to get there. Back inside, a half-empty cup of water sits on the kitchen counter, and there are a few dishes in the sink that need to be washed. It’s like he never left.

\-----

On a Tuesday afternoon, sometime in August, Dean wipes the sweat off his brow and squints through the heat distortions coming off all the cars. Past the junkyard fence, across the street, someone walks into the 7-11.

There’s a tug at Dean’s chest. He tenses, watching the smudged glass doors with deep apprehension as he waits for the other shoe to drop. But then his boss yells at him to quit daydreaming, and so Dean gets back to work. Keeps an eye on the door still, but he doesn’t see the man again.

The incident bothers him for the rest of the day, the rest of the week. He can’t help feeling like he fumbled the ball, though what the end goal is, Dean can’t really say. 

\-----

Half-past nine, on a chilly Saturday evening in early September, Dean watches the game on TV. It’s on mute though, because he needs to hear if the faucet’s dripping again—he’d fixed it earlier that day, wants to make sure it won’t keep him up again at night.

Suddenly, like the crack of a gunshot, there’s a knock on the door. Dean jumps, sloshing beer onto the carpet. He freezes, then slowly sets the glass on the table as quietly as possible. The silence roars in his ears.

There is no second knock. Just the tell-tale sound of metallic fumbling, as something is jostled about in the keyhole. Dean watches the lock snap open, and the doorknob turns—the door falls open.

There’s a man standing on the other side. He’s tall, incredibly _tall_ , and lanky too—young-ish, looking even more so with the hair in his eyes. 

Dean swallows hard and says, “You’re going to tell me, won’t you?”

The man smiles, and Dean’s chest clenches painfully tight. He _knows_ this smile—knows he loved it once, held it tenderly and close. The smile grows, impossible in its eloquence.

“Yeah, Dean. I’ll tell you what happened.”


End file.
